Page 54 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

His jaw clenched so hard she could see the muscle jumping. “It’s naething ye need tae concern yerself with.”

“It’s clearly something, given how ye’re holding yerself.” She moved closer, and he backed up a step—actually retreated from her, as if proximity was dangerous. “What are ye afraid of? That I’ll faint at the sight of blood? I’ve just been attacked by me faither’s men, Euan. I think I can handle whatever’s under that shirt.”

There was vulnerability in his eyes. It was the same look she’d seen when he’d spoken about Loch Eilein, about being defined by scars he hadn’t chosen.

Understanding crashed through her. “It’s the scar, isn’t it? From the battle. Ye dinnae want me tae see it.”

“It’s nae—” He stopped, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “It’s nae something most people find pleasant tae look at.”

“I’m nae most people.” She closed the remaining distance, her voice gentle despite the fire in her chest. “And ye’ve seen me at me worst—filthy from a dungeon, scraped and bleeding, terrified and shaking. If ye can tend me wounds without flinching, I can certainly dae the same fer ye.”

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other. Then slowly—so slowly it made her chest ache—Euan reached for the hem of his shirt.

Euan had spent years learning to hide the damage.

Shirts chosen carefully to disguise the way his right shoulder sat slightly higher than his left. Movements practiced until the limp became background noise rather than obvious impairment. A lifetime of ensuring no one saw weakness, no vulnerability that enemies could exploit.

But standing before Moyra MacKenzie, watching her green eyes track the careful way he peeled fabric away from skin, he felt every defense crumbling.

The scar was worse than most expected. Not a clean slice that had healed neatly, but a brutal tear that had taken months to close—jagged tissue that ran from collarbone to shoulder blade, thick and raised and utterly disfiguring. The kind of wound that should have killed a six-year-old boy.

That had killed the child he’d been and left something harder in his place.

Moyra’s breath caught, but not with the revulsion he’d braced for. Her fingers lifted, hovering just above the scarred flesh as if asking permission.

“May I?” Her voice came soft, almost reverent.

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

Her touch was featherlight—tracing the ridge of scar tissue with gentle precision, following the path the blade had taken through muscle and bone. He felt her pause where the wound twisted deepest, where surgeons had worried he’d lose all mobility if they cut wrong.

“Does it hurt?” she asked quietly. “Now, I mean. After all these years?”

“Sometimes.” The admission came easier than expected. “Cold weather. Overexertion. Stress.” His mouth quirked without humor. “Rescuing stubborn women from forests tends tae aggravate it.”

“I’m sorry.” Her fingers stilled. “This is me fault. If I hadn’t run⁠—”

“Nay.” He caught her wrist—gently, but firmly enough to stop that line of thinking. “Ye didnae cause this, Moyra. A hired blade at Loch Eilein caused it. Me faither’s enemies caused it. This wound has nothing tae dae with ye.”

“But the pain today⁠—”

“Is worth it.” He met her gaze steadily, willing her to understand. “I’d take a thousand pains like this if it meant keeping ye safe. I’d tear open every old wound and make new ones besides if it meant those bastards never got their hands on ye.”

The guilt in her expression gave way to something softer, more dangerous. Her free hand lifted to trace the scar again, and this time there was no hesitation in her touch.

“I dinnae care about scars,” she said quietly. “I’ve got me own, even if they dinnae show on skin. Three months in a dungeon leaves marks, Euan. The kind that make a person understand how wounds shape us without defining us.”

Her fingers moved higher, tracing the smaller scars that marked his shoulder and neck—evidence of a lifetime spent fighting. Each touch sent fire racing along his nerves, made his pulse hammer in ways that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the woman standing close enough to count his heartbeats.

“These scars,” she continued, her voice going rough, “they tell me ye’re someone who survived. Who fought through things that should have broken ye and came out stronger. That’s nae something tae hide, Euan MacLeod. That’s something tae be proud of.”

“Moyra—” Her name came out strangled.

“I mean it.” She stepped closer, closing the last breath of distance between them. Her hand moved from his shoulder to cup his jaw, thumb tracing the scar that marked his face. “When I look at ye, I dinnae see damage. I see strength. I see someone who understands what it means tae survive despite everything trying tae break ye.”

The air between them crackled with tension sharp enough to cut. Euan’s hands moved without conscious thought—one finding her waist, the other cupping the back of her head, fingers tangling in copper strands that caught firelight and turned it to flame.

“Ye should step back,” he managed, though his hands made no move to release her. “I’m nae—I cannae be what ye need, lass.”